


A Flight of Dragons

by keire_ke



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragon Riders, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2690018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moira skidded on the ice, slid down the slanted slope on her arse and came up panting, surrounded by a circle of glowing eyes and gleaming teeth.</p><p>Dragons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Flight of Dragons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [professor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/professor/gifts).



> What can I say, I saw an opportunity to write a _How To Train Your Dragon 2_ fusion, and I took it. :) A special batch of warm, gooey cookies goes to Kernezelda, who made sure it was coherent. Thank you!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, Professor!

It wasn't the most graceful of landings. Moira braced herself for impact as soon as she saw solid ground in the distance, even if at the time the distance was so great that falling would certainly kill her, needlessly, because there was no intent to cause her harm, she knew that from the beginning. Wild dragons tended to kill their prey immediately, and she wasn't just prey. All the same, the great talons clasped around her midsection opened too high, and she fell, hitting the ground a little faster than she was ready to compensate for. She skidded on the ice, slid down the slanted slope on her arse and came up panting, surrounded by a circle of glowing eyes and gleaming teeth.

The one that carried her sailed overhead, nimble in the darkness despite its size, and alighted beyond the circle, out of sight.

"I'm not afraid," she whispered and brought her hands up slowly, showing her empty palms. Her breath quickened, because how could it not? The dragons were clever: they saw the short sword at her hip, the knife on the other; they were watching, judging her every move. She took a step, then another, towards the creature whose scales were stained with flecks of yellow (massive jaws, fewer teeth than its brethren – swallows its victims, likely venomous), and the dragon bowed its head to her palm, sniffling, assessing. I do not fear you, she thought, willing her heart to slow. "Do not fear me, I'm your friend," she said, taking another step, letting her gaze fall to the smooth stones lining the ground. The dragon's breath moved her hair, the thick fur lining her collar, but there was no fire in it. Its eyes were wide, regarding her with mild curiosity.

Her fingertips brushed the warm scales and she felt the great beast shudder and push against her hand, just strong enough to let he feel it. "There we go," she said, breathless again, when a low rumble tore out of its throat and her heart sang with it. She knew the songs of dragons well enough by now to know these creatures meant her no harm.

All the same, it was good Erik wasn't here, she thought grimly. Things were good, hell, Moira wasn't blind, things were better than good, but it didn't mean putting their esteemed chief in a circle of wild dragons was a good idea. Especially not after what amounted to kidnapping, Moira thought grimly, looking around for the culprit. She was safe, she felt that keenly, but there were more dangers than dragon fire, all in all.

It was dark in the cavern; they'd flown through a narrow tunnel of ice and rock, one barely wide enough for flight, too remote for sunlight, yet she saw a shadow slide down the great dragon's side beyond the circle, a human. Another dragon rider. A rattling sound came from his direction and the darkness began receding, hiding under the dragon's bellies and their talons. One by one the great maws were opening to reveal the fire inside, burning bright, warm and harmless, turning the creatures into living lanterns.

The rider stepped into the circle, one hand trailing the sides and shoulders of the dragons he passed, the other grasping a tall staff, the source of the rattling.

"Who are you?" Moira asked. "What do you want with me?"

The rider paused, his palm supported by his dragon's wing. "Moira?" he breathed, the horned helmet listing to the side, the staff ceasing movement.

Moira felt her hands travel to her face, unbidden, drawing back her hood and the scarf that covered her face from the wind. The voice was only too familiar, but it couldn't possibly be him! Could the dragon fire conjure ghosts, Moira wondered, even when her legs took her another step forward, then another, as the man lifted the helmet and let it fall to the floor, and then her arms were around Charles' neck, his around her waist. "Charles!"

"I've never thought I'd see you again," he whispered into her ear. "This far from home, on a dragon no less!"

"I've never dreamed I'd see you at all, short of when I die! Charles—what happened?"

How did you survive, was what she wanted to know, but it wasn't an easy question to ask at the best of times, certainly not when her legs were folding under her, and she was, they were, falling to the ground, but landing on a dragon's wing instead. Moira laughed and clutched Charles tighter, sliding with him into the groove between bones until she is half-kneeling on the leathery webbing of the wing, her body stretched over his. How easy it was, how natural, to lick her lips and press them against his immediately after, how lovely and familiar.

"We missed you so," she whispered when they parted.

Charles' fingers carded through her hair, which slipped out from beneath the hood once it was off. It always happened, no matter how tightly she wound her braids. "I missed you too, darling," he said, just as quietly. Moira felt a gentle tug on her scalp and sure enough, the braid Erik had woven on their wedding day lay twined with his fingers. "You married."

"I have."

He looked at the intricate weaving of hair and thong, the three beads, made of precious metals. "Are you hungry?"

Moira'd been out on patrol for days, longer than was sensible, probably, pausing only now and then to fish. She could eat. She could eat a whole sheep all by herself, she realised without surprise. "I am, yes."

"Come on, then I know a great fishing spot." The dragon holding them up let out a snort and Charles quickly added, "and an excellent fisher, I mustn't forget that. The very best."

"No mutton?" she asked, a little playfully, as the dragon tilted its wing so that they could stand easily. Or so Moira could stand, anyway – Charles kept on holding to the joint at the wing's tip, letting it keep him upright. "Are you injured?"

"I've been injured, you could recall," he said honestly, smiling brightly enough to allay any worries she might have about him being in pain. "I can't walk very well."

He stood straight and firm nonetheless, Moira noticed. She allowed herself a long moment to take him in, from the old, worn boots to the brand new, if lopsided, leather armour circling his torso. His eyes were shadowed, impossible to read in the flickering light of the dragon fire, but his lips were soft, and warm, his hands inviting, and that was more than she dared to dream of the past five years.

"Come on," he said. He held out his hand and the dragon lifted him off the ground and onto its back.

"My dragon—" she started saying, but Charles sat up straight and whistled sharply. The dragon circle broke apart, scattering in a beat of leathery wings, and not a heartbeat later Moira's Banshee announced her arrival with a mighty screech, toddling to her side, as she often did when she was excited. Charles smiled at her from his perch, holding out a hand, and damn if the dragon didn't sidle up to him like a delighted pet, begging to be scratched.

"She's beautiful," he said, dragging his blunt fingernails down Banshee's jaw, causing the beast to let out an excited trill. "And she loves you so much."

"She's my dragon," Moira said proudly as she swung into the saddle and followed Charles out of the cavern into the blinding sunlight. They stepped out on a narrow ledge, one that ended in a steep fall, all the way down to a cerulean lake surrounded by greenery. "By the gods," Moira breathed, when Banshee made it to the very edge, and looked down. "But all the ice around, isn't it too cold?"

"There's fire underground," Charles told her, smiling. "The earth is warm." He pointed up to the little island in the middle of the lake, where a thin stream of smoke emerged from the glowing ground. Around it, in the safety of the ring of icy mountains, hundreds of dragons played, more than Moira ever imagined could exist.

"How did you find this place?" she asked, throat dry.

"Cerebro brought me here. After the—" he trailed off, looked down. The dragon he was riding, presumably Cerebro, turned her head to butt her forehead against Charles', earning a small smile, a kiss pressed to the tip of her nose, and Moira started. She recognised the dragon now, recognised the scar on its – on her – back, the deep blue scales criss-crossing its otherwise dark grey skin. This was the same dragon whose talons were responsible for Charles' injury.

This was the same dragon they'd all seen pick up Charles' bleeding body – and they were so sure it was a body – and depart their little island, never to be seen again.

"Why didn't you ever come back?" she asked instead, banishing the memory, where it would hopefully die.

"For what? Your chief would have us shot down before we could circle close enough to speak and I couldn't exactly hide her in the woods and walk, could I?"

Moira shook his head. "You could come back now."

"This is my home."

"Don't you miss us?"

"Oh darling," he said, expression falling. "I miss you more than anything, all of you, but I don't belong there. I never belonged there." He looked away, at the flock of dragons that raced past, and a smile crossed his mouth. No, he hadn't belonged back then, Moira thought. He'd been too fascinated by the creatures to see the danger they presented, too eager to throw caution to the wind in favour of learning just one more thing. Still…

"'There' has changed, you know." Moira spurred Banshee on, until she was standing at Cerebro's side. "More than you could have imagined."

Charles threw his head back, bared his teeth in a dragon-like grin. "I lived here for five years, with only dragons for company. I don't think any human place could change enough for me."

An image flickered behind Moira's eyelids, of Magneto in his fiery glory hiccoughing a ring of smoke and collapsing across the furs on their bed. Not quite the majestic beasts when all four of his legs were kicking empty air in his sleep. "You've been missed," she said simply. Charles hadn't taken kindly to being told he was wrong back then, and that wasn't likely to have changed.

His bright eyes closed briefly, but the smile softened and Cerebro spread her great wings to dive over the ledge. Moira urged Banshee to follow, leaping into an updraft of hot air that took them spiralling high into the sky. Her thighs tightened automatically as Banshee's wing twitched and they took a sharp turn, diving to the verdant jungle below. She watched Charles as the dragons floated in the updraft, rocking gently on the streams of hot puffs emerging periodically from among the rocks below. For all that Charles' injury affected his ability to move – and by the gods, _he survived_ , Moira thought, heady with the awe that only a true miracle can inspire – he held himself on the dragon's bare back like he was born there, his body attuned to the minute shifts of the creature's muscles, moving with her, anticipating her movements, anticipating the shifting of air currents. Moira's own saddle, although undoubtedly a work of art, made to reflect her riding style and her dragon's quirks, seemed crude in comparison.

The spiral took Banshee to tree level. They alighted on a shelf covered with moss and ducked into the cover of the trees, making space for Cerebro's broad wings. Moira's breath caught when the great beast landed, light as a feather, its wings folding in a graceful arch, one that swept past Charles' extended hand and deposited him on the ground. Charles walked slowly, propped on his staff, weighing each step until he settled against the rock, sliding onto a block of wood next to what Moira could see was a spit over fireplace.

"No mutton," he said, lips parted. "Sorry. There are no sheep for miles, though we occasionally hunt for goats and wild boars. Haven't for a while though, there's been dozens of hatchlings, the kind that I have never seen before!"

"A shame," Moira said dryly, having been raised on a diet of mutton on bread, dried mutton and, on special occasions, greasy, hot mutton, piping hot from the spit. Fish, while not uncommon by any means, where a little harder to come by, unless one was satisfied with fish soup.

"On the bright side, the fish are excellent. Would you mind, dearest?" He looked to his dragon, smiling, and Cerebro trilled in response, bouncing in place. She launched herself into the air, dove for the lake and emerged not three minutes later, an enormous salmon trapped, still thrashing, between her jaws. Not for long: she let the fish fall to the ground, skewered its head with a talon and gutted it with a swipe of her claws, before proffering it to Charles, who cleaned it in the small pool at his side, where a thin stream of water slithered out from among the rocks.

A small dragon was curled up in the middle of the fireplace, one that Moira hadn't noticed previously, as its scales mimicked the charred wood surrounding it. When Charles whistled it rose, yawning widely, and let out a puff of hot air that ignited the log it was sleeping under.

"How did we ever manage without them," Moira wondered, watching the small creature make itself comfortable in the flames.

"Well, we had a lot more target practice."

"True. Even fishing with a bow and arrow isn't the same."

"I've gotten lazy, myself," Charles admitted, flashing a smile that Moira knew to interpret as rendering whatever statement preceded it as anything but. Several of the nearby trees were missing large flakes of supple bark, which, to eyes familiar with the pattern of slices and the one who must have made them, had likely become pages in a new book of dragons, one whose advice wasn't solely "kill on sight." She witnessed and extraordinary amount of battles which Charles ignite merely by questioning the wisdom of the book they used to teach the children, back when she was just as eager to fight a dragon as anyone else in the village.

"I miss bread," Charles said wistfully, after a few moments of silence. "There's a little clump of rosemary by your leg, would you get a few stalks for me, please?" When Moira did he skewered the salmon closed with the sticks, and placed it on the spit. "I haven't had any bread since I left the village and I find I miss it something awful."

"We can solve that, you know," she said gently, reaching out to touch his knee. The leather under her palm was strong, yet worn; Moira could feel the warmth of his skin through it, could see the warmth bloom into heat with every second she looked into his blue eyes.

But no, the time was not yet ripe. He shied away from her gaze, sat up straighter, formal like a chieftain on his throne, rather than a friend. Moira shook her head and unhooked the armguards off her shoulders, undid the clasps that held her coat in place. This hollow island was warm, just as promised, and she was wearing many layers of linen and fur, a necessity on long flights. She spread out the damp garments on the moss, delighted to find it warm and dry.

"Why did you kidnap me?" she asked suddenly, looking up.

Charles blinked. "Kidnap you?"

"You plucked me from Banshee's back mid-flight and brought me to your island without realising who I am. Why?"

"I've never seen another dragon rider," Charles admitted. "I was curious."

"And it didn't occur to you to ask?"

He ducked his head, bright red flush spilling onto his cheeks. "I… didn't think of that."

Moira could only shake her head in exasperation. Of course he didn't.

They ate in silence, laughing when Banshee returned from her frolicking with a fat bird in her mouth and proceeded to gobble it up with no regard for company.

"No manners, that one," Moira said, rolling her eyes. "None whatsoever."

"Goodness, how shocking. How did she survive with you?"

"How did _she_ survive?" Moira cried in mock outrage, dropping a piece of fish onto the thick leaf, serving as her plate. "I was the one subjected to her dreadful behaviour!"

"It couldn't have been that bad!" Charles reached into the pool of ice-cold water behind him and produced a shell of some strange fruit, capped with leather and a piece of string that remained dry even when the bulk of the shell was submerged. Moira took it without hesitation, unwound the string and took a sip, finding, to her delight that the fruit was filled to the brim with—

"Wine? You brew spirits here?"

"What can I do, with only dragons for company?"

The wine was strong. Moira couldn't recognise the taste, but then this place was warmer than their secluded island, it stood to reason the fruit that grew here would be unfamiliar. She took another sip, delighting in the tartness spreading on her tongue, perfectly complimenting the slightly sweet fish. "Yet no bread?" She handed the shell back, enjoying the lightness the alcohol brought.

Charles grimaced, and then laughed. "Well, that would require grain. And flour and—"

"—and you can't seem to find time for it, can you."

"Wine doesn't require supervision, past selecting the right fruit. It also doesn't require baking. I have nothing even close to an oven here," he finished with a touch of petulance.

Moira laughed. She tried to stifle it, but there was no containing something that overflowed. She could blame it on the wine, true, but she'd much rather blame it on the man sitting before her, the impossible, bright man, who dispensed joy as easily as he breathed, who'd frowned at the village smithy and had it torn apart and rebuilt, until the fires within could burn hotter than the sun, with little risk of taking down the village. "You lazy creature," she said, sidling up and laying her head on his knee. "I missed you dearly."

She heard him sigh and felt his fingers in her hair again, carding through the strands, returning over and over to the thin braid woven just behind her ear. They sat there, not speaking, until the sun kissed the edge of the mountains behind their backs, casting the entire island in shadows.

Not too long ago Moira would have felt terror: night falling in a strange land, where every gust of wind was the song or echo of a dragon's wing, where the glow of their breath rivalled the stars in numbers, but no more. Charles breathed with her, singing softly, and they watched the shadowed beasts circle above them benignly, seeking out a perch for the night.

"It's astounding," she said, the words barely even a whisper.

"There's still more to see." Charles' voice was soft and affectionate. Moira stood, and carefully moved aside when Cerebro wandered closer to offer a wing. All four of them, the riders and their dragons, made their way inside a cave, hidden from prying eyes by a curtain of ivy. Cerebro nosed the leaves aside, let them slide over the wing she extended over Charles and Moira, leaving poor Banshee to negotiate her own way through the nefarious plants.

Inside, it was even warmer. Moira let out a gasp, because this was, quite possibly, the most beautiful dwelling she could imagine: the entire southern wall was covered in ice, wrapping around a small space in which several flat stones outlined a bed, covered with furs. Immediately before it there was a square fireplace, one that Cerebro set on fire as soon as they were close, but Moira realised with a jolt that she could see even before that, that there was light aplenty, light which seemed to live inside the wall of ice.

"It's hardly ever dark in here, while even a sliver of sun is visible," Charles told her. "You should see it at high noon."

"Since I don't plan on getting up before then, I will." She eyed the bed greedily. Days out on patrol, although of course it was no hardship being up in the air with Banshee, nights spent tucked into a dragon's side – it still couldn't compare with nights spent in soft beds, tucked into human warmth.

"There's a pool of water over there," Charles said, pointing between the pillars of stone that obscured the entrance from the inside. There was a small waterfall, although Moira could only hear it from the distance. "It's good for washing up. It's cold, I'm afraid, but I finally learned how to make decent soap."

Moira shrugged off the rest of her clothes, barring a thin shirt and her pants and shoes, as the floor was rather cold, set the sword aside, and went to clean up. She shouldn't have turned her back on the entrance, but she was so sleepy and tired, the day finally catching up – the day and the week that preceded it, really – that she let down her guard, and that was when a firm hand pressed against her mouth, holding her in place.

Bit of a rude wake-up call, she thought to herself, as she elbowed the attacker in the stomach and whirled in place, snapping up a thin knife she carried strapped to her leg, raising it, ready to strike—

Erik.

"Why on earth would you do that!" she hissed, sheathing the knife, while he panted, bent in half.

"There's a whole island crawling with dragons, why would I want you to scream?" he shot back, balefully.

"It's safe."

"They are wild dragons."

"I've been here for hours and I'm unharmed. They are friendly creatures."

"Oh, so you've been here for hours and I've been going crazy, because you left your fucking helmet floating on a piece of ice!"

"It fell off!"

He stared at her, incredulous. "Is this supposed to placate me? That it fell off?"

Moira grimaced. Spinning lies on the spot wasn't hard, but Erik had the unfortunate ability to see through her stories and half-truths, and how should she spin the fact that she was kidnapped by a dragon rider she didn't recognise at the time? How could she spin it in a way that wouldn't turn him murderous?

"I had… other concerns," she said.

"Would those concerns be in any way connected with at least three types of dragons I have never seen before?"

"I'm not going to say that's not true," she started, cautiously, and Erik threw his hands into the air.

"Gods be damned, Moira!"

A little too late, Moira reflected that this was not the time for an argument they'd been having for as long as they'd known one another, which was always. Too late, because when she realised that this was so much bigger than a patrol that went on for too long, a low rumble sent Erik spinning, reaching for the axe strapped to his back.

"You!" he hissed, when he saw Cerebro bathed in the orange firelight, the distinct blue markings crossing over its face impossible to purge out of memory.

"No, Erik, don't!" Moira cried, a reflex she'd developed a long time ago, but he was already charging the dragon, whose movement in the cave was limited, whose fighting ability was limited. Cerebro couldn't fly in here, Moira realised with dread. A downed dragon is a dead dragon, but if it cannot fly it can breathe fire, and if it breathes—

"No," she heard, barely a whisper, and yet it was like a mighty roar filled the cave, echoing through the stone and ice.

Charles stood by the wall of glowing ice, hand extended, halting the breath of fire in a mighty dragon with the power of his will alone.

Moira couldn't quite blame Erik for the fact his knees gave way.

"Erik," Charles said softly. "I won't let you hurt Cerebro."

"You'll fight me for a dragon?" Erik asked, just as soft, axe forgotten, dragon forgotten, blind to anything but Charles. How Moira sympathised. "For that dragon?"

"I've fought you for far less before." Charles' voice trembled, but he stood firm, propped on his staff. "Cerebro saved my life."

"Did it, now."

"She's my friend!"

"Good lizard," Erik said absently. Moira couldn't see his face, but she knew the tone, and she could imagine the smirk that accompanied it. He looked nothing short of a dragon himself when it stalked its prey, cornering it, like he was cornering Charles now, backing him against the ice.

"She's a dragon," the latter whispered, mightily offended. Cerebro herself sidled closer, keen eyes narrowed, maw gaping open, the promise of fire casting light onto the stones. She had not forgotten, either, Moira realised immediately. She hadn't forgotten that Erik was the one to carve the scar into her back, just like Erik hadn't forgotten she was the one who hurt Charles, who took him away.

Erik paid the dragon no mind, however, taking another step forward, then another, until he had Charles pressed against the wall of ice, and the dragon almost as close, ready to spring into action. Moira rushed forward, pressed her palm to Cerebro's nose and said, very softly, "It's alright. We're his friends."

And the dragon, the enormous powerful beast, the creature that, they now knew, had snapped Charles out of death's claws, the very same one that she and Erik had been hunting for the past five years, peace and prosperity of the village be damned, settled and watched as Erik very slowly bent his head and pressed his mouth to Charles'. Moira let out a whoosh of air and laughed, feeling as though the setting sun was lighting a fire in her soul, feeling, for the first time while on solid ground, like a dragon in flight.

Charles was kissing back. Oh, he was tentative about it, careful, his shoulders pressed against ice, his hands keeping Erik at a distance while simultaneously letting him hold his weight, but he was kissing back.

A curious growl at the mouth of the cave turned her head, as well as Cerebro's. Magneto inched his way inside, past the ivy, slithering around rocks like a snake, his massive wings folded carefully along his spine, the spikes and talons tucked close. Cerebro let out a curious chirp, and Charles tore away from Erik to inspect this new creature, a brightness in his gaze that left both Erik and Moira reeling (although in the former's case it was tempered by hearty annoyance).

"He's beautiful," Charles enthused, offering up his wrist for the dragon to sniff and reaching for his chin with the other, the staff falling to the floor. Magneto huffed and tilted his head back, exposing his throat which Charles took immediate advantage of, scratching with abandon. "I've never seen one of his kind grow this big." Magneto obediently rolled to his side and Charles collapsed on top of him, sliding down his neck to rest against one of the paws, examining the fins on his throat with rapturous delight. "Oh goodness, you have smooth scales – are you a swimmer? You must be. What a gorgeous creature you are!"

Moira caught Erik's eye and grinned, taking in his incredulity. "Did you honestly expect anything different?" she asked, feeling playful. Charles had changed little, for all the change he wrought in the two of them by his disappearance.

"I expected the damn lizard to stay outside," Erik groused, but Magneto lifted his head and let out a hiccoughing trill that was meant to indicate worry and offence at the implication he would leave his rider without support.

"Yes, yes," Erik muttered, coming closer to pat his mount on the nose. "What a fool I am, to expect my commands to be heeded. I'm only the chieftain, really."

Charles paused in his exploration of the intricately patterned scales on the dragon's underbelly and sat up on his knees. "He's your dragon," he said quietly, his voice catching, and his eyes shone in wonder.

Erik ducked his head and nodded, slowly. "Moira can be persuasive." Of course, it was less persuasion and more the threat of getting his head axed off that allowed her to bring the first dragon home, not as a prisoner but as a mount, later a friend. They fought about it long after the village accepted the dragons into their fold, long after the sudden attack of Shaw's tribe, one that took them by surprise and could have spelt their doom, had it not been for the dragons, for Magneto, who singlehandedly took out half the ships and leapt into the freezing ocean tide to save Erik's skin. There had been little gratitude for the poor creature, save for a begrudging "thank you" that Moira had had to cajole and threaten out of Erik's mouth in an effort to placate the dragon, and it had been a close thing.

Magneto, now, tucked his long snout under Erik's palm and snuffled, happy to receive a vigorous pat for his efforts. "I'm hardly going to start being mad now, lizard," Erik told him, running his hand down the dragon's neck, all the while looking at Charles, looking at him lay his hands where the dragon's heart beat strong beneath the scales. His eyes shone in the dim light provided by the fireplace, inhumanely blue against the orange hue the fire painted on his skin.

Well, Moira was human, and not much more. She stepped away from Cerebro, leaving her to her own devices, and slid to her knees beside Charles, tangled her hand in the long hair on the nape of his neck and kissed him deeply.

She heard Erik sigh and felt him move to her side, felt his hands brush against the knuckles of her right hand, then move to Charles' waist, to his chest, to the clasps that hold his armour together. They were in a cave that was half ice, yet Moira felt as though she was kneeling in the sunlight on a summer day when Charles reached for her.

Erik let out another sigh when the armour gave way and fell to the floor, pressed his mouth to Moira's hand, then Charles' exposed nape. Moira heard, rather than saw, Erik's armour coming undone, and then he was dragging them up, but never apart.

No wonder Cerebro was sniggering under her breath, Moira thought as they shuffled towards the bed. She, too, couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of her chest. She was breathless with it when Erik tripped and fell backwards into the furs, already half-naked and splayed for the taking. She saw Charles smile, part regretfully from her mouth, then crawl over Erik to claim his, his thigh slipping between Erik's as he lapped at Erik's exposed collarbone.

Moira, never one to waste time, slid the shirt off her shoulders, shimmied out of her shoes and trousers, barely containing a gasp when she set her foot on the cold rock. It was only a step, however, just one, before she was up to her ankles in furs.

"Let me," she said sinking to her knees, her hands already on Charles' back, sliding the thin – worn to the point of transparency, she noted, Charles needed a new shirt – material over his head, then bent to lick the hollow of his spine, the scar that covered his lower back from waist on his right to his left hip, down to the edge of his trousers, dipping her tongue below it.

He moaned into Erik's mouth, shuddering all over when she dragged her tongue around his hip. Moira sat up, feeling accomplished, licked her lips and lay back, knees parted just enough that she could watch the two men before her share a deep kiss. "Undress," she commanded softly, bringing her heels closer but letting her knees fall to the sides.

Charles pushed himself onto his knees, his fingers fumbling with the lacings of his trousers, a deep crease appearing between his eyebrows. Oh, they were tight, Moira thought, licking her lips. They were tight enough to warrant the grimace of pain at an incautious shift, one that swiftly turned to a moan of pure pleasure when Erik tugged him forward, mouthing at the soft skin of his belly.

Almost without thinking Moira slipped her fingers between her own legs, gasped when the barest brush sent a wave of shudders up her spine. No, this was not the time for leisure and exploration, she thought, watching Erik push Charles' trousers down his thighs, take the swollen cock in his mouth and close his eyes. Moira hooked her foot around his forearm, pulled harshly, until he crawled her way, kissed her deep enough so that she tasted Charles on his tongue.

"Later," she rasped, licking at Erik's mouth, licking every last taste of Charles out. "Later. I want him in me."

"As you desire, dearest," Charles whispered, unlacing his boots and shimmying out of his pants faster than he should, given the length of laces Moira was seeing. Or perhaps she was imagining the laces, certainly she couldn't have been paying that much attention, not with Erik's long fingers slipping into her cunt, stretching her, until she cried out with want and then in anguish because he withdrew his hand, shiny with her slick.

"I've missed you," Charles whispered, settling between her knees, his erect cock pushing against her. "I lie awake thinking of you, of kissing your cunt when he fucks me, of fucking him as he fucks you."

Moira jerked her hips, scooted down, just enough to feel the head of his cock slip into her. What she wanted most is to fall to the soft bedding, hook her ankles around his back, feel him sink into her as deep as he can, but no, not now, not yet; Erik was slicking his cock with spit and her juices, straddling Charles thighs and pushing his cock between them.

Charles let out a moan and let Erik's weight drive him forward, into her, forcing a gasp out of her lungs, and she saw, over Charles' shoulder, that Erik's hips pressed desperately against Charles' ass, his cock between Charles' thighs, nearly dry and pressed tight together.

"Gods," Erik whispered. "Charles…"

"Move," Moira urged, rolling her hips, drawing him deeper in. "I want you to come, do it, move, it's been too long."

"Hasn't been that long," Erik groused, voice strangled, lost to pleasure. Charles said nothing, just shuddered against her, jerked his hips, drawing a moan out of both Moira – perfect, perfect stroke, just as she loved it best – and Erik.

"Must you?" she asked. "Now's not the time."

"Moira likes to ride me before she flies," Erik confessed on her behalf, each word licked into Charles' ear. "Likes me to loosen her up before she takes the lizard flying, get her nice and wet with my come. I wonder if that helps – it must, because when she comes back she slips into bed and sucks me off, without even undressing, and I cry your name."

"How dare you," Charles countered, with a breathless laugh. "Breathe another's name while your wife gives you pleasure."

"Oh, I'm hardly thinking of him, either." Moira arched her back, locked her thighs around Charles' hips and clenched her muscles until he cried out, until he threw his head back, exposed his neck to Erik's teeth and came all at once. "I'm thinking of the tears on your face after he licks you, when I suck his cock, of the moans you make when we have you."

Charles' forehead fell to rest on her collarbone, lips parted and caressing her breast, chest heaving.

"Move," Moira urged once again, and, when he and Erik began to undulate, she snuck a hand between them, fingertips brushing Charles' cock, still buried in her, further down, between them, a teasing brush against Erik's then back to where she wanted it, a little more pressure – just a touch…

Erik gasped and Charles let out the moan she was waiting for, the sweet slip of a sound, tears hanging onto the tips of his lashes, as Erik spent himself between his thighs and slid to lie beside Moira, and she, too reached her peak.

Charles withdrew slowly, collapsing into Erik's waiting arms, while Moira rose onto shaking knees, pulled at the furs until she had enough to cover the three of them with.

Soft kisses lulled her to sleep, pressed against her breasts, her hair, her hand, her mouth; a welcome, a promise, a wish, and she returned the kisses with as much hope.

She woke to a ring of fiery flakes, blinding refractions cast by the early morning sun traversing the ice wall, and a lick of breath at her belly button, then at the edge of her hair. "It's not yet noon," she said, half-awake yet gasping, catching Erik's eye over Charles' broad shoulders. "The ice is supposed to burn at high noon."

"We can wait," Erik said, bending to kiss the freckles spattered over Charles' pale skin. "We will wait."

THE END


End file.
